


Nowhere Else I'd Rather Be

by veryloyalveryquickly



Series: I Am Scared [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:04:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryloyalveryquickly/pseuds/veryloyalveryquickly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's one last thing I want you to do for me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere Else I'd Rather Be

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. 
> 
> Author's note: I am so sorry. This is complete, pure angst. There are no happy endings here. Please let me know what you think of it.

**_ Nowhere Else I'd Rather Be _ **

Sherlock knew it would not be long now. John was sleeping on the sofa, as he had done every night since his return, and Sherlock watched over him like a hawk. It had been two weeks since John had checked himself out of the hospital, and since then Sherlock had been mentally preparing himself for the inevitable. John, though weak, had been adamant; he wanted to spend his final days at Baker Street. Sherlock understood John's decision. John didn't want to be surrounded by wires and tubes, and white hospital walls, he wanted to be surrounded by warmth and fond memories, and the comfort of home. The doctors had predicted a week at most; that had been fourteen days ago, but now Sherlock could see that his brave, strong doctor was slipping away.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the ill man on the sofa, as they had done countless times already that morning. John's face was pale, gaunt, and his body was frail and emaciated, the woollen jumper hanging loosely from his skeletal frame. The cancer had spread so quickly through his body, making him constantly tired and nauseous, and now it was about to rob Sherlock of his only friend and companion. Just at that moment, John's eyes fluttered open, and he groaned. Sherlock was by his side immediately, wrapping one long arm around his back and helping him into a sitting position. Without a word, he handed John the glass of mineral water and morphine pills from the coffee table. Since John had been diagnosed ten months ago, Sherlock had developed an understanding of the dying man's needs, to the extent that verbal communication was no longer necessary. John winced as he swallowed the pills, then slumped back into the cushions, gasping. His eyes were glassy with pain, but he smiled weakly up at the detective. "This is it, huh?"

John's acceptance of his own approaching death was something Sherlock had found it difficult to come to terms with, but John was a medical man, and he knew exactly what was happening to him. Sherlock's fingers brushed John's damp brow, and he tried to change the subject. "Would you like some tea?"

"Sherlock," John sighed, shaking his head slightly, though the tiny movement sent waves of pain down his neck, and he flinched. "I think today's the day."

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and leaned closer, his grey eyes glittering with an agony to match John's own. "Not today."

"Yes, today." John saw the look in Sherlock's eyes, and he longed to make that pain go away, to reassure him that it was alright, that he was ready to go, but he knew he could not. Sherlock was suffering as much as he was, and there was nothing John could do about it. Instead, he attempted a chuckle. "You know, I could really do with that cup of tea."

Sherlock knew that the conversation was not over, merely postponed, but he rose to his feet and headed into the kitchen. Whilst the kettle boiled, he allowed his mind to process John's words. He'd known this day would come soon and, frankly, it was surprising that John had struggled on a week longer than had been predicted. What he hadn't counted on was how much it would hurt him, and he hated himself for it, because no matter how much it hurt, he knew it could only be worse for John. The sound of water boiling brought Sherlock back to his senses, and he prepared the tea exactly the way he knew John liked it, focusing on the task at hand.  _Teabag, hot water, milk, sugar._  He carried the tea into the living room carefully, though his hand was shaking slightly, causing some of the scalding liquid to spill over the side. When his eyes fell upon John, lying still and silent upon the sofa, his heart dropped to his stomach. "John?" Sherlock called quietly, trying to stifle the rising panic in his chest. At the sound of the detective's voice, John stirred, and his eyes fluttered open.

"I'm still here," John muttered faintly, as though he knew what Sherlock had been thinking. Sherlock moved forward to place the steaming mug on the table, and John offered him another wan smile. "Thanks." Sherlock made to help John back up into a sitting position, but John held up a trembling palm. "It's okay." Sherlock watched as his friend, with an obvious effort, sat up and reached forward to grasp the mug. Sherlock wondered if John would be able to keep the tea down this time, unlike the day before. John finished drinking and set the mug down before collapsing back into the welcoming softness. The sheen on his forehead indicated the effort the small action had taken, but his mouth was set in a determined line. "Sherlock, I want to do something. Will you help me?"

Sherlock hesitated for only a moment. "Of course. What do you need?"

"I want to go outside."

Sherlock balked. "John, I'm not sure that's a good idea. In your condition-"

"Sherlock, I'm dying," John stated calmly. "There's not much I can do now to make things worse."

Sherlock felt as though he had been punched in the chest, and for a moment he could not speak. His voice, when he finally found it, was thick with emotion. "John, you need rest."

Tired hazel eyes stared beseechingly up at the detective. "Please."

Sherlock could not ignore the heartfelt request of his dying friend. After a long silence, he nodded slowly. "Okay, John," he whispered. "Okay. Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere. Just for an hour or two, not long. I just want to see the sky. I want to feel the sun on my face. I miss it, and it's my last chance." John's breath shuddered in his chest, but he lacked the energy to brush away the single tear that rolled slowly down his cheek. Sherlock, astute as ever, leaned forward and wiped it away for him, his fingers leaving trails of warmth on John's cool cheek.

"Okay. We'll go."

* * *

They ended up in the park, sat together in the long grass as children played around them. John was too weak to travel far, so Sherlock pushed him in the wheelchair given to them by the hospital. It now lay parked beside them as it's previous occupant basked in the sunlight, leaning back into Sherlock's chest. It really was a fine day, warm and bright, and John looked truly peaceful. "It's beautiful," he breathed in wonderment. "It really is."

"Yes, it is," Sherlock agreed softly, feeling John's warmth against his chest. It was a beautiful day to say goodbye. John inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of London.

"You know, there's nowhere else I'd rather be right now than here, with you."

Sherlock felt his heart twist painfully. There was nothing he could say, so he wrapped his arms around the dying man, pulling him closer, and they remained that way for some time. John soon drifted into sleep, exhausted and worn by the illness ravaging his body, and Sherlock found himself listening for the sound of his breathing, knowing it could stop at any moment, and feeling a flood of relief when it didn't. He couldn't help but remember how deeply John had been affected during his three year absence, when he believed Sherlock was dead. At the time, he didn't understand why John had allowed his 'death' to almost destroy him, but faced with the prospect of a life without John by his side, he finally realised what it felt like. John was the only person he had ever cared about, and the only person who cared for him in return. Sherlock was not a high-functioning sociopath; he was a barely-functioning human being. He had all the working parts; brain, lungs, liver, kidneys, but his heart belonged to John Watson, and when he died, he would take it with him, and Sherlock Holmes would be left broken. John was such an integral part of his life, he couldn't imagine what it would be like without him. It would seem that soon, he would find out.

Sherlock suddenly became aware that John was shivering in his arms. Without him noticing, morning had turned into afternoon, and the sky was beginning to grow dark. "John?"

John did not answer, but Sherlock could feel his muscles tighten in an effort not to cry out in pain. It had been hours since John had taken any painkillers, and now the unbearable agony had taken hold. John clenched his teeth as Sherlock rooted around desperately in his bag for the bottle and pills.

"Here, John, swallow these pills."

"Hurts, it hurts."

"I know. This will make it stop, I promise."

John did as he was told, and Sherlock watched as the John gulped down the water, panting for breath, before taking the older man in his arms once again as they waited for the morphine to take effect. After a few minutes, John's body settled, and he began to sob quietly into Sherlock's chest, his tears dampening the silky fabric of his shirt. Sherlock rubbed his friend's back soothingly, whispering comforting words into the thin blonde hair until John felt strong enough to be helped into the wheelchair. His eyes were dull, and small tremors ran through his thin frame. Sherlock could see that John was losing the fight.

* * *

Once they were back at Baker Street, Sherlock laid John down in his own bed for the first time in just over a month and dimmed the lights. John offered no resistance as Sherlock pulled the covers around his wasted body, tucking him in like he was a small child. Though he was trying his best to act calm and composed, John could feel the fear radiating from his friend, and a rush of pity coursed through him. The need to offer some sort of comfort was overwhelming, and John feebly motioned for Sherlock to sit beside him on the bed. Sherlock hesitantly obliged, though he did not look towards John, instead directing his gaze to the floor. John spoke in a clear voice. "Sherlock, it's okay. I'm okay. I've been ready for this for a while, and I think it's time." Sherlock still did not speak or look up, so John continued. "I'd like to say I don't want to die, but the truth is, it hurts so much." Sherlock glanced up sharply then, and John saw that his grey eyes were unnaturally bright and wet. "I've had a good life." This was true. John did not regret a single thing he'd done in his life, and if he had the chance, he knew he'd do it all again. "Please, don't be scared for me."

Sherlock buried his head in his hands. "I am scared, John."

"Sherlock, look at me." Sherlock raised his head slowly to meet John's gaze. "You will be fine."

"No, I won't. Not without you."

"Yes, Sherlock, without me. You'll carry on, and you'll continue to save people and help people, and you'll be happy. Delete me if you need to." Sherlock looked aghast, and shook his head vehemently.

"Never, John."

John looked up at Sherlock's horrified expression. "Then remember me, but if you do, don't remember me like this." John swept his eyes across his body. "Remember me like I used to be, when we first met, when I was strong, and healthy. But no matter what you do, whether you forget me or not, don't let my death ruin your life." Sherlock dropped his head back into his hands, and John felt a wave of despair. "Sherlock, you have to move on." He was losing the energy to speak, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Death was looming over him now, ready to claim him, but he wasn't finished yet. "Promise me."

Sherlock shook his head in his palms. "I can't."

John could feel the tears welling up his eyes, though he fought against them. "Sherlock, I need to hear you promise. You have to carry on, for me. Please."

The reply, when it came, was so quiet John had to strain to catch it. "Okay. I'll do it for you, John," Sherlock mumbled into his hands, and John felt his muscles relax with relief.

"Thank you." John's vision was becoming blurred now, the darkness creeping in at the edges, and he could feel the life draining from him. It surprised him when he felt the mattress dip as Sherlock lay down beside to him, so close John could feel his warm breath on his cheek. Long fingers combed through John's hair, or what was left of it, as he gazed into John's eyes with a look of infinite sadness.

"I never told you, did I?"

John licked his dry lips. "Told me what?" he whispered hoarsely.

"That I love you."

John's heart leapt in his chest, and then fell back down again. He'd been waiting for years to hear those words, had come to accept that Sherlock would never feel that way about him, and now it was too late. Already, his breathing was becoming laboured as his body began to shut down, though he tried desperately to keep his eyes open. It was too late for them. John's voice, when he spoke, was breathless and ragged.

"Sherlock, there's one last thing I want you to do for me."

The tears were rolling down the detective's face now, and he made no attempt to wipe them away. "Anything."

"Kiss me."

Sherlock froze, and for a moment, John thought he would refuse. Then, he felt soft lips pushing against his own as Sherlock kissed him for the first time.

In that kiss, Sherlock saw everything that could have been.

_Romantic, candlelit dinners in Angelo's._

_Days spent together working, laughing, talking._

_Nights spent together kissing, touching, loving._

_Holding hands in the park._

_Kissing in the rain._

_Arguing over milk._

_Making up afterwards in bed._

_Growing old together._

He saw their life together, the way he'd dreamed it would be.

Then John Watson smiled, closed his eyes and died, and Sherlock's dreams died with him.


End file.
